


Eggshells

by Lacertae



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-10 03:18:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2008932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lacertae/pseuds/Lacertae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>*America/N.Italy*</p>
<p>Even bright and happy people suffer from unmoving relationships, and making new friends sometimes leads to something better. America and Italy are going to find out that befriending each other unexpectedly brings them to something good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! For those who recognise this, yes, this is on ff.net and has been for a while already. I have decided to post it on here since I'm working on editing out mistakes and expanding it (so if you've read it before, you might find it's now better). So far I have fixed six chapters out of the seventeen it has.
> 
> For new readers, I hope you enjoy this rarepair!

  
**Eggshells  
**

**Prologue**

 

America let out an exaggerated huff as he walked down the street, not knowing where he was going; it had been a tiring day, what with all those reports to go through, and then having to do that long speech about being the hero and saving the world again –the other Nations never did anything on their own, they were _so_ uncooperative!– and he was terribly tired.

Being a huge, strong, loved Nation was life draining.

He had wanted to indulge in a glass of beer, but unfortunately, the pub closest to the UN building had been taken hostage by some of the Nations he really didn’t want to meet (namely France, England and Russia, god forbid), so he was wandering around, hoping to find another promising one.

He _needed_ alcohol.

Until the previous year, if in need of booze, he’d trick England into going to the nearest bar and chug it all down, laughing at how quickly the British could get drunk, undressed **_and_** violent, but times had changed.

Things had gotten… well, uncomfortable lately. More than just a bit, to the point where he had started to avoid England whenever they happened to cross paths. During meetings, America was hesitant to joke around with him, or even speak directly to him unless he had points to discuss with him, and outside… well, it was easier to avoid him rather than confront him in general.

England of course had noticed, but he hadn’t made a single step to try and understand why America was avoiding him, probably because of his ego, or maybe because he was England, and he never had what others considered tact. Well, America didn’t have much of that either, so… as it was, the only change America had noticed about England was that he turned just a bit grouchier than usual, and that his insults and prods towards America sounded somewhat empty.

Alfred might have looked an idiot to most, and perhaps in certain ways he _was_ –but if it was about his own feelings, then no, he wasn’t.

_‘Beer’_ he thought, eyes darting around; then he brightened up as he noticed a green neon banner that signalled the presence of a pub. It was not that far from the UN building, so he would be able to get back there and take the car to his house, but it was far enough that it would never attract England.

England had a clear preference for pubs that reminded him of home, so English-looking, but this one was a normal pub, if a bit gaudy.

It would do well for him, definitely.

Pushing the door open, America was greeted by soft lights, a row of seats on the counter, walls with plaques of old coca cola ads from the 70es and many strong-built men gulping down huge mugs of beer. Oh, the manly appeal of a pub, late at night, to drown away the fatigue.

Alfred shrugged, feeling somewhat welcome by the fact that nobody looked at him as he entered, and made his way inside.

As he approached the counter, though, he noticed with a grimace that he was not the only Nation who had opted for this pub. In a corner, sitting at one of the farthest tables, there were Germany, Prussia and Denmark chugging down beer like pros, laughing and basically being chaotic together.

On a better day, he would have joined and drowned in alcohol with them, but as it was, he needed a subdued form of booze.

Trying to fight the urge to make a hero–like appearance, he slumped at the counter with his back to the group, and attracted the attention of the bartender.

“A beer!” he stated, cheerfully.

“Uh~ that was my place~”

America tried to put together a scary face and turned around, pissed off at the interruption, only to blink in surprise when he noticed it had been Italy speaking; the Italian eeped in surprise and fear, and backed away, waving his arms in front of him.

“N–no! It’s nothing! I’ll… I’ll go take another seat! You can keep my jacket too!”

_‘Jacket?’_

Looking down to his stool, he noticed in shame he had sat upon what looked like Italy’s jacket. He jumped up too, feeling quite silly, and chuckled. “Italy, here, take your seat back, I didn’t mean to scare you”. _‘Heroes can’t scare their minions!’_

Italy stopped his apologizing, blinked in surprise, then a sheepish smile appeared on his lips. He accepted his jacket and seat back and waited until Alfred pushed another stool next to his.

“Why aren’t you there with them?” America pointed at the chaotic table behind them.

He didn’t really feel like conversing with the other Nation, but he guessed Italy would be chatty, and it would be not that heroic of him to avoid being friendly over his own depression.

Did heroes even get depressed in the first place?

“Oh, well…” Feliciano fidgeted a bit, and was grateful when the bartender brought on Alfred’s beer and his own.

“You drink beer?”

Italy pouted. “I prefer wine, but I’m not picky when I need to get drunk, ve~”.

Which didn’t sound as cool as he might have wanted.

America chugged down his first glass of beer, feeling the liquid run through his throat, leaving some sort of bitter aftertaste, and he licked his lips, wiping the remains of its foam from his chin.

Slamming the glass on the counter, he snapped his fingers at the bartender to order a second one.

“It looks I’m not the only one wanting to get drunk~”

Alfred turned around and stared in annoyance at the Italian, who was busy sipping his own beer and was not looking at him, so with a small shrug, he also returned to his second beer. Not to be outdone, Italy chugged the remaining of his own glass and ordered a second.

Despite his annoyance, Alfred had to admit that Feliciano wasn’t really the lightweight as he’d expected him to be.

For a few minutes, the two simply minded their own business, each one drinking at their own pace until they reached the third glass. They didn’t drink it with the huge mugs Germany and Prussia were used to lap at like dogs, so it wasn’t half the amount it occurred to have them drunk.

“You didn’t answer me,” America pressed his elbows on the counter and returned his attention to the fellow Nation; the beer, although still too little to affect him, had at least mellowed his annoyance, and he felt prone to talking now, proved it would be just idle chat.

“Ve~?”

“Why are you drinking here, alone, and not with them?” he pointed a thumb at the three drinking fiends with a raised eyebrow.

Italy’s eyes flickered in that direction, mainly on Germany, who was by now rolling his sleeves up and chugging down what looked like his sixth pint of beer, and sighed.

“It evolved into a challenge,” he stated, as if it was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard. “They’re trying to drink each other under the table –again”.

“And this is wrong because…?”

Italy attempted a glare, but it came out more as a pout than anything else, and resumed his sipping at the beer.

“… it’s complicated,” he muttered finally, low enough that America had to strain his ears to hear him.

It was quite strange, to watch Italy being so subdued, but there again, America himself was acting a bit differently. Not that it mattered much. Not that he cared.

He was just there for the booze.

“Stupid England,” he muttered.

Italy stared at him, curious, then shrugged.

Both fell into some sort of comfortable silence after that, drinking their glasses and then kept on ordering more beer.


	2. Chapter 01

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So far I have edited 11 chapters! The fanfic has been polished of bad things and the grammar corrected even if the chapters are still short. I'm sorry about that.

**Chapter 01**

 

“And… I think this is the last point of the day!” brightening up at his own words, and shuffling through his documents with a huge smile, Alfred pointed one finger to the sky (or the ceiling, but it was the same). “The meeting is adjourned!”

The second day of the UN meeting had moved on quite faster than the first, and it had been even funnier. Mainly because a good part of the present Nations were suffering from hangover, of course.

America never suffered hangover. He barely knew the word, but it was useful to explain why Germany was pressing his head on the table, groaning in pain, why Russia was tormenting Latvia without his usual cheery smile, and why England was standing in a corner, with a blanket pulled over his head.

Where he had managed to get the blanket, Alfred didn’t know.

But alas, so it was.

Maybe it would have been considered not respectful to have a meeting between nations ruined by alcohol, but despite that, they still managed to do their work without problems, and anyway there were a lot of reasonable nations who remained perfectly sober, so there was no trouble with it either way.

He bounced out of the room, ignoring the groans of relief from the nations, feeling refreshed and ready for a good work out, when–

“Alfred, wait a bloody moment!”

He winced, although not visibly, and stopped. Oh, good. _Perfect_.

He turned around, facing a pale England who had clear shadows under his eyes, and who looked like he would get sick any moment now; definitely not a good sight. He still seemed to be able to talk without slurring so that was good, at least.

“I need to talk to you about your bloody idiotic speech on how to remedy to the petrol demand!” England truly looked pissed off, but his hangover just made him appear sick and… maybe a bit old.

America felt his own anger resurface. It was not his fault that Seychelles hadn’t allowed him to build a huge robot-machine to pump the hell out of those oil caves she was obviously hiding somewhere on her islands!

That girl was a fiend, and she just hid it well under a happy, carefree face. Of course. The bad guys were never really evil-looking like in movies.

But as it was, it wasn’t like the other people had anything to suggest on their own, so why would England even dare to bicker at him for trying to do something? Even if maybe he was exaggerating a bit. But just a bit.

“You dolt! And you consider yourself a strong nation? Learn your own borders and we’ll talk then –bloody git” England was clearly about to start another shooting match, but this time America felt less than inclined to indulge.

It was weird, perhaps, since he’d always found his bickering with England funny, but… he was getting tired of it lately. It wasn’t really funny anymore.

While at first it had been so entertaining America kept going more than he should (because damn it, riling England up and watching him squirm, get angry and flustered in embarrassment, then start yelling, was definitely something amusing to watch), and after that he’d considered their banter something like… well, almost some sort of foreplay, even…

He had learned, slowly and painfully, that it was just that. Foreplay.

It never led to anything else but anger, disappointment, then forgiveness, only to repeat again just about the same every other time.

America hadn’t known when he’d stopped finding it funny. It wasn’t anymore.

It was not enough, and it would never be enough, because this dancing around, this shifting and fighting… it was frustrating. America wanted something _more_ , wanted their banter to lead to something, wanted England to stop yelling for a second and acknowledge that he wanted something more too, and…

He took a deep breath. Maybe being honest about it would be the right way. Maybe if they confronted what they felt, maybe he wouldn’t feel so annoyed all the time. He didn’t _want_ to avoid England. “Engl–”

“Italy! Why is there a tomato sauce stain on my… _lower back_!”

“Ve~ Germany, you were drunk and sat on my pasta yesterday night~”

America, unable to keep his attention on something for too long (especially when that something was unpleasant and unsettling), looked above England’s head. What had once been considered the Axis Powers was walking through the corridor crossing with the one he was in, so he had a good view of them as they passed by.

Germany was blushing, red spreading across his face and to his neck, and was slapping Italy’s hand away from his arm as he tried, ineffectively, to cover his lower back from prying stares; he was probably convinced that Italy would want to touch his behind, or tug down his pants to clean _them while still in the corridor with other people_ , and really wanted to avoid it. Following them at a safe distance, and trying hard not to let his gaze slip lower, was Japan, with his usual stoic expression ruined by a small flush.

“I–it’s not that bad, Ludwig–san,” he was saying, though his words defeated his attempts to look like he hadn’t _looked_. “You can go clean them in the bathroom…”

America chuckled, for a second forgetting about England yelling at him, and met Italy’s eyes as the other nation looked up. Italy cheerfully waved at him and he waved back, only to be kicked in the side by a very enraged British man, who disliked to be ignored.

“You better listen to me, you bloody–”

Alfred sighed, his desire to have a serious talk dwindling quickly, and he drowned away Arthur’s voice, thinking about heroes and hamburgers, watching the Axis Powers walk away. 

…–…–…

With a pout, Italy resigned himself as Germany closed the door of the public bathroom on his face.

Honestly, he hadn’t meant to annoy or embarrass the man, he just wanted to go inside with him and help him clean his pants; of course Germany would be prudish and not want him to help, but still.

Italy had just suggested they could clean the stain without him having to take off the pants, and he hadn’t thought that would make Germany have a fit, honestly! It was just pretty unfair. He knew how much he loved privacy, but he was just trying to help…

Still pouting, vaguely annoyed, Italy slid on the ground, his back pressed against the wall, looking like a kicked dog, and closed his eyes, resolving to wait until Germany would come out.

He would always wait for Germany, and he had been doing so for a long time.

There were times, though… that he wondered if by waiting so much, he’d lost his chance. Sometimes acting was best, but given his situation, he knew that waiting was only more respectful.

Things with Germany… well, they were _unsettling_.

He loved Ludwig. He’d loved him for a long time now, and the feelings didn’t seem like they were going to leave anytime soon. He loved him, that kind of love that made seeing him every day a necessity, a pleasure and a priority for him. just being in Germany’s presence made Italy feel happy and cheerful, no matter what kind of scary face Germany would make.

Unfortunately, this kind of love also scared him a bit. He was already such a dependant person, someone who easily befriended and cared for others, and at the same time grew to need them a little bit too much. He knew it was a bit of a fault, and at first Germany hadn’t liked him for that, but slowly things had changed, and now Italy knew Germany didn’t mind that anymore, and found it endearing.

Which was good, because his feelings for Germany went deeper than that.

He had fought at Germany’s side during the war, and had always remained at his side, even though everybody had considered him useless. Germany protected and cared for him all the time, and Italy had thought that this would mean something, that maybe… maybe his feelings were not one-sided, and he just needed to wait, but now…

Now, he was starting to fear it was not enough.

He knew that he couldn’t ask more from Germany, not if he wanted to have a chance with him. Germany was not that assertive when it came to himself and his feelings. He was good at giving orders, and planning, and working, but emotions? No, Italy knew him, and knew that if he came on too strong, he would only confuse him further.

That was why he was waiting, but…

Was it bad to want something more? To want Germany to finally understand, and maybe make a gesture that could reassure Italy?

Or… was it bad that he’d started to want something _less_ instead?

Oh, Germany was a confusing person alright. Italy worked better with nations who were more open, more emotional. That was why he was such a good friend of Spain, and even his brother. But Germany was so closed off, so blank, carefully keeping everything inside. Italy had a hard time reading him sometimes, despite all the years at his side.

It was confusing, and it made Italy feel guilty. Shouldn’t he know more of the other nation by now? He had already rejected Germany’s proposition once, during the forties, and sometimes he wondered if he shouldn’t have accepted the other man’s clumsy attempts at courtship. But no… back then, Germany had only acted on confusion, and his gestures while honest, were not heartfelt. They were following Germany’s thoughts on courtship and partnership out of obligation, not real love.

Italy wanted something a little more heartfelt.

He wanted Germany’s love, almost desperately. But he could recognise confusion about feelings in his secret love’s eyes, and he knew when to back off. Germany needed to confront his feelings and decide whether Italy was someone he truly loved, or not. Italy wouldn’t accept anything less.

Unfortunately, rationalising like this was ok, and he knew he’d been right to do so, to respect himself and Germany and back off, but… he still wondered how things would have changed if he _had_ accepted.

His feelings for Germany were strong. He wanted Germany to care for him. he wanted Germany to love him. he wanted more, but at the same time he didn’t want exactly that. He didn’t know. Ludwig was important to him, but this dancing around each other, acting normally, like there was nothing between them… it was hurtful.

But did he want Germany to finally come to terms with things? Did he want Germany to finally realise he had a choice to make? He loved Germany, but at the same time, he was scared. Both options –for him to return Italy’s feelings or not– were scary.

A part of him didn’t want Germany to love him, and another did.

He didn’t understand.

“Ah, but it hurts _here_ ~” he murmured to himself, pressing one hand over his heart. He was confused, alone and wishing he could understand the mess inside his heart. “I want Germany to love me, but… I don’t want him to love me?”

“Feliciano, did you say something?” muffled from the other side of the door, Germany softly knocked on the wood, whilst desperately trying to wash the stain away from his pants. Such embarrassing display, where everybody could see… damn it.

Italy froze and swallowed everything down –his feelings, his fear, his yearning. He muttered something about pasta almost automatically, and on the other side, Germany seemed to accept it, and let the matter go.

With a soft sight, Italy curled up on himself and hid his face in the crook of his arms. This was unsatisfying, and it made him angry.

Italy wanted Germany to notice. He wanted him to ask what was wrong and actually understand that Italy was hiding something from him, and yet at the same time he didn’t want it to be obvious. He didn’t want Germany to notice.

Ah, but this was messing up with things too much. Standing up, backing away from the bathroom door, Feliciano felt ashamed and angry at himself. His indecision, his feelings, they were making things hard for himself, and their strained situation that was only noticed by him, not by Ludwig. The more he remained around the other man without speaking up, the more he felt helpless, and stupid. He didn’t want to feel like this. He didn’t want to be angry and sad either.

He wanted to be himself. To be happy again. To feel like he’d felt back then, hopeful and patient. Why was he losing his patience? It wasn’t _right_.

_Why_ couldn’t Germany _notice_? He seemed to notice everything else, even when it was about Italy. He knew when Italy was about to whine for food, or for a nap, or when he wanted to go out rather than stay coped inside. Then why couldn’t he notice that Italy was feeling awkward around him now? That something was different? That he was slowly distancing himself from Germany, even if that was hard and took a lot out of him?

Was Germany really not going to notice? Why?

Was it too much to ask?

He turned away from the bathroom, knowing that there were too many questions and he just wanted to leave, and almost bumped into Japan, who was holding a stash of documents in his arms. He’d left for a couple minutes, and Italy hadn’t noticed him coming back.

“Feliciano-kun,” Japan blinked, clearly concerned. “Where are you going?”

“Ah~ I think I need some pasta,” he replied, pushing his uneasiness away. Yes, comfort food. That would be perfect. “I’ll be back at some point, don’t miss me too much~!”

Japan seemed to want to say something, and his eyes flickered away from Italy’s face and onto the ground, before settling back on the other Nation’s face, jaw tensing. “Of course,” he replied quietly, lips twitching into a small smile. “Please take care”.

Italy nodded, patting gently Japan’s back as he passed by, and then he left down the corridor, while Japan watched him go with a small sigh.


End file.
